


Their Side of the Story

by byrd_the_amazin



Series: The Misadventures of the SAGE [2]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: First Kiss, I suggest you read TMOTSAGE first, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Eve Party, New Year's Kiss, Party Games, dumb newsies being dumb about their feelings, dumb people being dumb about feelings, sprace's point of view, this is the sequel, which are always fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 02:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5809822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byrd_the_amazin/pseuds/byrd_the_amazin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the requested sequel to TMOTSAGE-</p><p>"If you ever get the chance and actually want to would you be able to do a background story of this with sprace snippets showing why crutchie called it from the beginning and other little things leading up to NYE like how spot stayed at race's and their movie marathon and stuff. Please please please add in the Italian lessons and how that came up"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their Side of the Story

**Author's Note:**

> HEY GUYS 
> 
> bet you thought i was done with this #surprise 
> 
> here you go, Sarah37480... the requested sequel, with sprace's point of view 
> 
> hope you like. hope you all like. 
> 
> this is actually seven pages longer than TMOTSAGE and i'm not sorry at all
> 
> and a merry new year, ya filthy animals
> 
> never mind taking into account that it's 24 days past january 1st
> 
> shh
> 
> i will continue to be in the new year's spirit until my birthday in eight days
> 
> wootwoot
> 
> so here
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

 

~

“And just where are you off to?”

Spot turned, hand halfway to the knob of the front door. Crutchie was seated on the couch, flipping idly through a magazine.

“Race’s. Where else would I be going?”

Crutchie glanced at the clock in the kitchen. “We aren’t due over there until two.”

“Well, I’ve got to get there early. Race and I are planning things for his New Year’s party.”

“Planning,” Crutchie scoffed. “Plotting, more like.”

“I would deny that, but it’s true,” Spot said with a grin. He grabbed his beanie and jammed it on his head, then swung the apartment door open. “See you later, Crutch.”

“Bye,” he heard as the door closed behind him.

~

Mush greeted him at the door in pajamas. “You’re early.”

“I am,” he agreed, fixing his eyes on the pajama bottoms covered in- _were those ducks?_ “You do know it’s past noon, right?”

“Shut up, you,” Mush grumbled, leaning against the doorframe. He had dark bags under his eyes and his hair was all messed up on one side, like he’d literally just rolled out of bed.

“Race!” he called into the apartment. “Your boyfriend’s here.”

Spot just rolled his eyes. “We _aren’t dating._ ”

“Sure, sure.”

“Race, tell the ass to let me in.”

“Let him in, ass,” Race parroted from somewhere inside. Mush looked outraged, and turned back to shout something else- maybe to give Race a piece of his mind- and Spot took the opportunity to duck under his arm and make his way into the apartment.

 He heaved himself onto the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table and waiting for Race. Mush stomped past him to the kitchen, obviously still miffed that Spot got more respect than him.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” he grumped, opening the fridge and taking out the orange juice.

“Always,” Spot said with a grin, just as Race came out of his room.

“He does anyways,” Race sighed, “regardless of what you tell him to do. He’s just stubborn like that.”

Spot stuck his tongue out at him.

Mush groaned. “Get a room.”

“Go back to yours,” Spot shot back.

“What are you, my _mother?_ ”

“ _Boys,_ ” Race said.

“No, that’s Race,” Spot said, leaning back as Race plopped down next to him, punching his arm. _Hard._

“So, planning the party,” Race said conversationally, as Mush clanged around in the kitchen. “Do you _mind, Michael?_ ”

“Not a bit, _Tony,_ ” Mush yelled back. He walked past, cereal bowl and glass of orange juice in hand. “I’m going to eat in my room, _goodbye._ ”

“Bye, _culo!”_ Race called back cheerfully, as Mush’s bedroom door slammed.

“Cool-o?” Spot asked. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”

“Means ass,” Race said. “In-”

“Italian, yeah, got that.” Spot looked at his friend. “Do you regularly yell at him in other languages?”

“Only when he’s being difficult,” Race said innocently. “And it’s especially fun when _he doesn’t understand what I’m saying!”_

From Mush’s room came a muffled cry that sounded something like, “ _Screw you!”_

“Your roommate is not a morning person,” Spot observed. “Or… afternoon person.”

“He’s not a person at all,” Race agreed. They waited for a reaction from the bedroom, but Mush didn’t appear to have heard.

“So.” Spot turned to Race. “Planning. For the party.”

“Right.” Race sighed. “I was thinking we could do our Secret Santa thing.”

Spot frowned. “Except it’s not… Christmas. Or any other nondenominational holiday that excuses us using Santa.”

“We’ll work around it,” Race suggested. “We can call it something else. But since it’s a tradition…”

“It’s a tradition to do it _at our Christmas party,_ ” Spot pointed out. “Which this is not.”

“Well, we skipped it this year, for whatever reason.” _Whatever reason_ being that the Christmas party almost hadn't happened at all this year, due to another one of Spot and Race’s arguments. They’d resolved it (that was a joke, _Davey_ had resolved it), but not in time to salvage Secret Santa.

“So we’re doing it now,” Spot summed up.

“Correct.”

“Are we going to figure out who everyone has again?”

“Don’t we always?”

“You do, and it’s _annoying as hell,_ ” Mush said, coming out of the bedroom and reentering the kitchen.

“What do you want, _fata_? Aren’t you ignoring us?” Race called.

“ _Fata?_ ”

“It means fairy,” Mush snapped. He crossed back to his room again, carrying, of all things, a spoon in one hand and an oven mitt in the other. “Even _I_ knew that.”

“Because I call you a fairy approximately eight times a day,” Race said with a snort, as the bedroom door closed once more.

“So, Secret Santa. _Secret Anonymous People Exchanging Things_. Whatever. We announcing it today when everyone comes over?”

“Yeah, maybe. Yeah, let’s do that.” Race pulled out his phone. “What time are they all coming?”

“Two?” Spot tried to recall when Crutchie had said they were supposed to leave. “I don’t know.”

“Because you _always_ come early,” Race pointed out, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Taking advantage of our hospitality, invading our lives…”

“Shut up, you love me,” Spot laughed, shoving him lightly.

“Sure, Spot.”

“Stop _flirting!_ ”

“Screw you,” Spot and Race called at the same time, and Mush made some sort of  noise like a cross between a huff and a groan.

“Don’t you have a _boyfriend?_ ” Race asked. “Go annoy Blink, _culo._ ”

There was a pause, and then, “We aren’t dating.”

Spot coughed. “ _Hypocrite._ ”

“Well, we _aren’t!_ It’s… complicated.”

“Go whine about it to someone else,” Spot said, and then, almost as an afterthought, “Cool-o?”

Mush burst into laughter on the other side of the bedroom door and Race groaned. “You’re hopeless. You didn’t even pronounce it right.”

“Well, if you’re so smart, then teach me how to say it, _ass,_ ” Spot snapped. English insults, at least, he could manage.

“Fine,” Race said, and leaned in close. _Much_ too close. “ _Cu-lo._ ”

Spot was well aware of the way his breath hitched slightly, and tried to pass it off as a snort. “ _Culo._ ”

“Good. That means ass.” Race leaned back. “Want to learn more?”

“Is that even a question? I love insulting people when they can’t understand me.”

“We _know._ ” Mush was doing a _terrible_ job of minding his own business.

“Are you ignoring us or not? Make up your mind, _fata,_ ” Race snapped back. He turned back to Spot. “ _Fata._ Fairy.”

Spot repeated it to himself. “Okay, what else?”

“Just stick around long enough,” Mush said, poking his head out of the door with a mouthful of cereal. “If you’ve ever seen him stub his toe…”

“He bring Italian profanities up an entire level,” Spot said with a nod. “I know, believe me.”

Race went pink in the face. “Yeah. It’s when I get angry, or frustrated, or unable to control myself.”

“Which is every day.” Mush took another bite of cereal.

“ _Sta ‘zitto_ ,” Race grumbled, and for once, Spot didn’t need to ask for a translation.

“Yeah, _fata,_ zip it,” he added, earning him a winning smile from Race, and a groan from Mush.

“Oh, joy,” he said, slightly hysterically. “And then there were _two_. I can’t deal with this.”

There came a knock at the door. At the same time, Mush’s phone buzzed.

He read the new text. “Blink’s here,” he announced, sounding far too excited for it to be _complicated._  

“Great.” Race checked the time on his own phone. “Time for everyone to get here. Let’s announce it once they’re all in here.”

~

“Gather round, bitches,” Race called, as everyone began congregating in the living room.

Spot choked back a laugh, sitting beside him, then caught sight of Davey’s murderous glare. “There are children in the room, asshole.”

“Sorry.” Race must have seen the fire in their friend’s eyes, too. “I meant, um, assholes.”

Davey muttered something in protest, but Sarah shrugged, like _if you must._ Les didn’t help matters, instead enthusiastically proclaiming, “I’ve heard worse,” which Jack was quick to shoot down, hurriedly introducing Race’s idea with a panicked grin plastered to his face.

“Alright, it’s time for us to draw names for our annual Secret Santa Gift Exchange,” Race said, and looked around, eyes dancing from the rim of his own hat to Spot’s beanie and then to Jack’s hat, which, instead of his normal beanie, was a baseball cap that Spot hadn't seen him wear since middle school.

And he was willing to bet money that Jack’s signature beanie was either on Crutchie’s person or somewhere close, because lord knew Jack was always giving Crutchie things as “acts of chivalry” or because “he looked cold.” ‘ _We’re friends, Crutch.’_

Spot suspected that it was _d) none of the above,_ and instead, Jack wouldn’t admit his giant crush on his best friend that was visible from space. _Idiot._ Not that Crutchie was any better.

Spot should know. He _lived_ with the guy.

When he returned to his senses, Jack had given Race the baseball cap, and, suddenly reminded, Spot snuck a glance towards Crutchie. _No beanie._ Which meant that it was somewhere in their apartment, he just knew it.

“I’m gonna need some paper,” Race was saying, “to write all your names down and stick them in here…”

Katherine, God bless her organized soul, was ready. “Already done.” She handed Race a piece of paper. “All our names are on there. You just need to rip it into individual slips.”

 _Nice, Higgins. Nice. Way to be the leader._ “Hallelujah,” Spot said, casting his gaze on Race. “At least _someone’s_ on top of their game tonight.”

“Hush, you,” Race snapped, but, like when he was cursing at Mush, there was no real hatred in his tone. “What would I do without you, Plumber?”

“Crash and burn,” she said, grinning as she slipped her pen back into her bag. Sarah made a noise of agreement, and Katherine turned to beam at her girlfriend.

Race handed the paper to Spot, which he took to mean that he was to rip it up. Secretly glad to be useful for once, he prepared the slips of paper and listened as Race explained the rules. Snitch was called out on his inability to keep quiet, which Spot sympathized with. Once he and Race figured everyone out, as they always did, it took all of his willpower and then some to keep it a secret.

As he tore the last name and sent it fluttering into Jack’s old hat, Davey raised the question that Spot himself had asked.

“Um, why are we doing this _now?_ Shouldn’t we have done it during, like, the Christmas season?”

“We don’t all celebrate Christmas,” Spot said. At least, that had been their excuse for not getting it together in time for their actual Christmas party this year.

“Amen to that,” Sarah sighed, who knew as well as Spot and Race the real reasoning behind their skipping it.

Romeo scoffed. “And yet why we kept the name Secret _Santa_ when Santa is a Christmas-related figure, I’ll never understand.”

 _My thoughts exactly,_ Spot internally screamed, and just as he was about to voice this thought, Race spoke up.

“Because _Secret Santa_ sounds a hell of a lot better than _Secret Anonymous Gift Exchangers,_ ” he said, and Spot felt his mouth drop open.

 _My idea,_ his brain unhelpfully pointed out. _I said almost those exact words._

Instead of accusing him of stealing what was, after all, a pretty funny joke, Spot’s next words came out as a half-hearted mumble.

“I dunno, I sort of like that. Kinda sounds like a boy band.” He addressed the room at large. “Who wants to form a boy band with me and name it _Secret Anonymous Gift Exchangers?_ ”

Crutchie frowned at him. “You’re drunk.”

Race agreed and took the hat from him, mixing up the names inside. “So,” he said, fixing their group of friends with an evil smile. “Who wants to go first?”

~

Once everyone had left, Spot wasn’t the least bit surprised to find himself once more the only person left, save Race (and Mush, but he didn’t count, as he had taken one look at Spot and Race sitting on the couch and slipped away into his room to call Blink).

So it was just Race and Spot, sitting on the couch, talking.

 _Scheming_ may have been a more accurate word, actually. Because they had half of their friend group’s Secret Santas figured out- Spot knew from Jack’s facial expression that he’d gotten Davey, and he was ninety-nine percent sure that Crutchie had gotten Jack, from the way his face had turned that unnatural shade of white.

“So who’ve you got?” Race asked, after admitting that he had Crutchie.

Spot froze. He had Race, but for whatever reason, he didn’t feel like sharing this information. “I’ve got Snitch.”

Race nodded, not even catching the lie. “So who’s got me? Itey?”

 _No, Itey has Snitch, and I have you, you idiot._ But he didn’t say it out loud, instead only nodding in agreement.

He didn’t know what it was. They’d always told each other who they had before. A few years ago, when Race had had Spot, he’d admitted it right from the beginning. They were always honest about it.

So why was Spot suddenly being secretive?

Maybe because it wasn’t as fun then. It was exhilarating to actually be _normal_ and anticipate Race’s expression.

Because Spot had the most amazing idea for a gift.

So as Race murmured to himself, trying to work out the last of the details, Spot watched the darkening windows and wondered how the _hell_ he was going to pull off the present he had planned.

Finally, Race was finished and, turning to Spot, eyes heavy with sleep, said, “I should teach you how to cuss in Italian.”

“You should teach me how to cuss in Italian,” Spot repeated. “I know some.”

“You know the shit I taught you this afternoon, like, _ass_ and _fairy._ ”

“ _Culo,_ ” Spot said, proud of his memory. “And _fata._ ”

“See, those are lame. And you forgot _sta ‘zitto._ Shut up.”

“Yeah? And what are the good curses in the wonderful world of Italian?”

“Italy, dumbass. The ‘world of Italian’ is Italy. Where my _family_ is from _._ Why I can _speak Italian._ ”

“Dumbass,” Spot said, ignoring him. “How do you say dumbass?”

“ _Idiota._ ” Then Race scrunched up his face. “I mean… technically that’s idiot. But the sentiment is received either way.”

“ _Idiota,”_ Spot murmured. “Okay, what else do you have for me?”

“So much,”  laughed Race, and the breathless way he said it, eyes still half-closed, sent a jolt of excitement up Spot’s spine. “What do you want to know?”

Spot racked his brains, thinking of the insults he used on a daily basis. “Ooh, tell me how to call Jack a jackass.”

“ _Asino?_ ”

“Damn, I’ve got to start using these. These are _great_ how have I never asked you how to say this shit before?”

“Mmhmm,” Race closed his eyes completely. “Mush... _poltiglia._ Literally, ‘mush.’ Ay, Mushee! Hear that, _poltiglia_?”

“Shut up, I’m ignoring you,” came his muffled reply.

“Crutch.” Race grinned, eyes still shut. “Crutch is _gruccia._ ”

“And there’s no way in _hell_ I’m not using _that_ one,” Spot said. “What else?”

There came no response. Spot looked over to see Race in the same position as before- leaning back, eyes closed- but now his mouth hung slightly open, and his breathing was heavier.

Spot watched Race for a second more, taking in how much his features relaxed in sleep. The scowl that inhabited his face so often was gone, as was the cruel sneer. When he wasnt spitting venom out of it, he had quite a nice mouth.

Then Spot shook himself. _What the hell?_ He’d never, not _once in his life,_ thought about Race like that. Least of all his _mouth._ Where had _that_ come from?

“Did you bore him to death at last?” Mush asked from the doorframe of his bedroom, and Spot jumped, backing away from Race, who he realized he’d been leaning into to watch.

Which was _extremely_ creepy of him, he realized, even as he jerked backwards.

“No!” he yelped, desperately trying to compose himself before turning back to Mush, who had a shit-eating grin on his face. “I mean. No. He’s asleep.”

“And you were watching him _why?_ ”

Spot shrugged, unable to think of an explanation that wasn’t creepy as hell, and got into a more comfortable position on the couch.

Mush nodded slowly. “You gonna go home?”

Spot didn’t even feel like turning his head to look at the clock, so he didn’t. “What time ‘s it?”

“Almost midnight.” Mush crossed his arms. “And while you two lovestruck idiots-”

“Are _not_.”

“-Were busy _gossiping in Italian,_ I’m ready for bed. So if you could go home now…”

Spot tried to sit up and his entire body protested, and suddenly Race and Mush’s worn old couch had never felt so comfortable in his life. “Do I have to go?”

“My sense of self-dignity and my desire for peace are telling me _yes,_ ” Mush said, crossing his arms. “But I’m in a good mood tonight. Don’t eat all my food. Don’t come in my room.”

“Yes, _Mom._ ”

“Good night, ass.” Mush turned out the lamp and slipped back into his room.

“Night, _fata_ ,” Spot replied sleepily, testing the new word out on his tongue. He found he quite liked it, and made a mental note to ask Race for more Italian tomorrow.

~

Something was wrong.

Spot knew this even before he’d opened his eyes.

For one thing, he wasn’t in the same sleeping position he’d been when he’d passed out. Sometime in the night he’d acquired a pillow, which he was wrapped tightly around. A nice, warm, surprisingly _solid_ pillow.

Oh no.

As Race shifted beneath him, Spot leapt backwards like he’d been burned, and someone across the room snickered.

He moved his eyes from the (thankfully) still-sleeping Race to Mush, who was sitting in the armchair opposite them. “What?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” Mush said, returning his attention to his phone, his face the picture of innocence, which Spot didn’t buy for an instant.

“Screw you, _fata,_ ” he hissed, stretching and running a hand through his hair.

“’S my word,” Race mumbled, eyes cracking open to squint at him, and Spot froze, wondering if Race had really been asleep. _Did he know how just a minute ago, Spot had been wrapped around him like a koala?_

“Morning, sunshine,” Mush commented, and Race extracted his hand from under his head to flip him off. 

“Go make me breakfast, _puttana,_ ” Race mumbled into the arm of the couch, and Mush just snorted.

“Get your boyfriend to make breakfast for you, asshole.”

“ _Puttana?_ ” Spot asked.

“Bitch,” Race sighed. “Mush, you know as well as I can that he-” he stifled a yawn, “-can’t cook for shit. _Per merda._ ”

“I take offense to that,” Spot said, whacking him on the arm. Race swung out his arm as if to hit him back, but his coordination was suffering from his sleepiness and so he only managed to smack the couch. Spot snickered.

“ _Culo,_ ” Race hissed, swinging his legs over the couch and sitting up. “I’ll make my _own_ damn breakfast.”

“Love you,” Spot said, blowing him a kiss as Race stood and made his way into the kitchen.

“You _so_ do,” said Mush, and Spot rolled his eyes, not even gracing the comment with a response.

Race began clanging things around in the kitchen, and Spot glanced at the clock.

“Shit, I need to go home,” he said. “Can I grab something to go, Higgins?’

“Screw you, _fata._ ”

“No, that’s Mush,”  and even Spot agreed that he deserved the pillow to the face that he received from Mush’s armchair.

“I _slave_ for you assholes, making your lazy asses _food,_ and you can’t even stick around to enjoy it? _Rude_.”

Spot hesitated, weighing his options. On one hand, Race’s food was _life-changing,_ what with his training being from his Italian mother.

On the other hand, he hadn't seen Crutchie or even thought to call since last night, and he had Roommate Duties to fulfill.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got to go.” Not to mention he still hadn't thought of how he was going to get Race his gift. “But I’ll be back.”

“Oh no you won’t,” Mush snapped. “I’ve had too much of The Spot and Race Show to last _three_ lifetimes, thank you very much.”

“Oh _yes you will_ ,” corrected Race. “There’s an apple on the counter for you. Now, shoo, _culo._ ”

“Back at you, _puttana._ ” Spot rose from the couch, walking to the door and grabbing the apple on his way out. “Bye, Race.”

“ _Addio,_ Spot.”

“Feeling the love, Conlon!” Mush yelled from the living room.

Spot rolled his eyes. “Bye, ass.”

He missed what exactly Mush hollered as he left, but he had the strangest idea that he knew what was implied.

He snuck into the apartment under the hopes that maybe Crutchie was still asleep. Maybe he could say he had come home late last night and avoid Crutchie’s wrath.

No such luck. As he crept inside, he heard Crutchie’s voice from his room. He must have been on the phone with someone, and as words filtered under the door, it wasn’t any secret who he was talking to, or what they were talking about.

“But it’s got to be _special,_ Kath. It’s _Christmas._ ”

 _New Year’s,_ Spot thought to himself, and almost as though he’d heard it, Crutchie sighed and said, “Whatever. You know what I mean. It’s got to be good.”

Katherine said something else, and Crutchie moaned, “I don’t _knoooow._ ”

 _Fascinating._ If Spot and Race had been right (and he was fairly certain that they were), then Crutchie was talking about Jack. Talking about how he needed the _perfect_ present.

Spot could definitely relate.

He sat down on the couch and picked up a magazine, flicking through it but not really paying attention, instead listening to Crutchie’s existential crisis playing out in the next room.

Halfway through the magazine, Spot heard Crutchie’s bedroom door open, and Crutchie came out into the kitchen. Spot went still on the couch, hoping Crutchie wouldn’t cut the conversation short on his account – it was _very_ interesting- but his roommate didn’t even seem to notice him.

Katherine said something over the phone, and Crutchie gasped. “Oh, man, that’s it! Jack loves painting! I should get him-”

 _Paint supplies,_ Spot said in his head.

“Paint supplies!” Crutchie said excitedly, and Spot gave himself an internal high-five.

Katherine cheered, which even Spot could hear, and then said something else. Crutchie sighed and said, “Call me when it’s over?”

And then, “Talk to you later, Kath,” as he hung up.

Spot couldn’t help himself. “When are you two going to get your shit together?”

Crutchie jumped and spun around, and the shocked expression on his face was enough to make revealing himself _totally_ worth it.

“How long have you been there?” he demanded.

 _Five minutes._ But Spot wasn’t about to _completely_ out himself. Not yet, at least.

“Always check your surroundings before pouring your feelings out over the phone.” A lesson well-learned, in Spot’s own opinion, and also the reason Spot now locked his door when he was on the phone.

“You little _shit,_ ” Crutchie said, cheeks flaming red, and Spot couldn’t hold back his grin. “How much did you hear?”

 _So much._ “Enough to know that you are my Secret Santa, which I didn’t need. I already know everyone’s. Figured it out with Race last night.”

“You stayed at Race’s last night?”

 _Shit._ “Sure,” he said, trying to keep the guilt out of his voice. “Once everyone else was gone, he let me have the couch.” _We shared the couch._ “I was… too drunk to make it home safely.” _Too tired and lazy to take the stairs._

“His apartment is on the floor directly above us. _Race literally lives upstairs._ ”

 _Damn it. Damn it damn it damn it._ “What’s your point?” Spot snapped, which he was very aware made him sound eight years old, but he couldn’t find it in him to care.

Crutchie muttered something under his breath about _getting their shit together._

“ _What?_ ” Spot hissed, because he was fairly sure he knew what Crutchie had said, and it was just as bad as Mush’s accusations. As everyone’s accusations.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Crutchie paused, then, in the worst attempt at changing the subject _ever,_ said, “Why do you two insist on figuring everyone out every year? Doesn’t that ruin the fun?”

“Maybe. But I hate surprises.” _And it’s our tradition, Race’s and mine, and since we kind of screwed up the Christmas party this year, this is the next best thing._

“Why do the Secret Santa at all, then?”

“It’s tradition,” he said,  voicing his thoughts aloud. “But don’t worry, Crutch. I won’t tell Jack.”

“About the fact that I have him for Secret Santa or the fact that I like him?”

Well, Spot had _originally_ planned on teasing Crutchie for having Jack for Secret Santa, but…

“Was that a _direct confession_ I heard?”

Crutchie cursed under his breath. “Neither. Either. Don’t tell Jack. Please.”

And Crutchie looked so vulnerable and frightened, like he thought Spot was actually going to tell on him, that something inside of Spot softened, and what he was _going_ to say died in his throat.

Instead, he said, “You’re fine, _gruccia._ ”

Then he inwardly smacked himself because _dammit_ he hadn't planned on that. It had just slipped out of his mouth. Maybe Crutchie hadn't heard. Maybe he’d write it off as a pointless mumble.

“Groocha?”

Well, so much for that. Too late to back out now.

“Yeah, _gruccia._ Means crutch.”

“Oh.” Crutchie nodded in – was that _understanding?_ Spot didn’t like the look on his face. “Race has been teaching you Italian, too.”

“Damn right he has.” Spot hoped to all the powers that be that Crutchie wouldn’t notice the uncertainty in his voice. “And I’m getting pretty good at it, too.”

“Sure, Spot.” Crutchie looked down at his phone, then back up at Spot. “Hey, Spot.”

“Present.”

“Could you give me a ride into the city?”

Spot thought about it. “What for?”

“I need some… things.”

 _Master of the world’s worst poker face strikes again._ “Things for Jack?”

“Yeah, things for Jack.” _Oh, good. At least he wasn’t in denial anymore._ “But you don’t have to take me anyplace. Just drive me down into the city?”

Spot sighed. “You’re lucky I love you, Crutch.”

~

“What _the hell_ do you mean you _haven’t watched Star Wars_?”

It was the night before the New Year’s party, and, true to his word, Spot had come back to invade Race and Mush’s hospitality some more. Race was giving him a look as though he’d just announced he didn’t appreciate Italian food- shocked, and slightly offended.

Spot shrugged. “Just… never got around to it. I always meant to, but-”

“Screw this.” Race got off the couch and moved to the DVD cabinet. “We’re watching _Star Wars._ ”

“Sounds good to me.” Spot got comfortable on his own part of the couch as Race put the movie in and fiddled for a second with the DVD player.

“Um, do you know what you’re doing?”

“Shut up, _culo._ Mush’ll fix it in the morning if I completely screw it up,” Race said, making a little noise of triumph as the DVD menu sprang to life on the television.

Race came over and flopped down on the couch, right beside Spot.

“Move, _puttana._ You’ve got the whole couch,” Spot snapped.

“Mm, nah,” and Race got _even closer._ “I need to be here to explain shit to you so you aren’t completely lost.”

“Fine, but could you-”

The opening song blasted over the speakers, and whatever Spot had been about to ask – and honestly, he didn’t even know, himself- died in his throat.

~

Mush came out of his bedroom expecting a chorus of taunts in Italian. Spot was visiting, after all, and instead of _acting_ on the massive crush that he’d heard about from Race all too many times, Race was content with antagonizing Mush, and bringing Spot into it, too.

But instead, he entered the living room and was met with silence, save for the menu music for _Star Wars_ playing at full volume. He almost snapped at them to turn it down, when he got a good look at the two boys on the couch.

For one thing, they were fast asleep. For another, they were cuddled close together, Race’s head on Spot’s chest and Spot’s arm around Race, and Mush would be _damned_ if that wasn’t the cutest thing he’d ever seen in his life.

It was also _stellar_ blackmail material.

But he didn’t post any of the pictures he took, because he wasn’t _cruel._ Let Spot and Race work their shit out, and then he could pull these pictures, along with the ones he’d taken a few nights ago, out at their wedding.

Then he turned, quietly, and snuck into the kitchen to silently make himself breakfast. He wasn’t going to be the one to break the two of them up, especially seeing as they were so deep in denial about their whole… _situation._

~

“Ready to go?” Spot asked.

Crutchie shrugged. They were getting ready to leave for the party, and Crutchie looked scared out of his mind, shooting glances at the wrapped package in his hands with doubt in his eyes.

“As I’ll ever be,” he admitted, shifting slightly on his good foot.

“Hey,” said Spot, in a show of compassion that he rarely displayed. “Hey, it’ll be fine. He’ll love it.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Crutchie took a deep breath. “Let’s go, then.”

“Here goes nothing?” Spot offered.

“Here goes nothing,” Crutchie agreed.

~

Race greeted them at the door, flushed face and huge grin. “Come in, come in and join the party!”

“Aren’t we the first ones here?” Crutchie asked, and Spot laughed. His poor roommate wasn’t used to being the first guest like Spot was. Crutchie was _normal._ He came at the _required time._

“Course we are,” he said. “We’re here to help set up.”

“Wonderful, wonderful. Secret Santa shit goes on that table. Beer- you did bring beer, right?”

Spot scoffed and held up the case they’d brought. “Who the _hell_ do you think we are of _course_ we effing brought beer.”

“Good.” Race took a sip from the bottle in his hand. “Goes on the kitchen counter.”

In the living room, Spot recognized Mush’s angry shriek. Race didn’t even bat an eye. “Crutchie, go help my poor confused roommate in the living room.”

“ _I can hear you, ass!”_

Spot snickered, then noticed Race was still talking.

“…Food duty with me. C’mon.”

Spot followed him into the kitchen for “food duty,” although from the looks of it, they were already set for the party. Race spun in a slow circle, taking in the counters laden with snacks and alcohol, then turned to Spot.

“I think we’re good on food. I just didn’t want to have to help Mush with the TV,” he admitted, setting his beer on the nearest counter and turning back to Spot. “Since I messed it up with our movie and now I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You little shit. I _told_ you that you didn’t know what you were doing.” Spot set the case of beer down.

“ _Sta ‘zitto._ I don’t recall _you_ offering your services last night,” Race shot back.

“Only my services as your pillow,” Spot retorted, then bit his tongue. They still hadn't talked about this morning, when they’d awoken tangled together with no memory of how it had happened, both just grateful that Mush hadn't seen.

Apparently, Race wasn’t opposed to addressing it now, because he stepped forward. “You were an amazing pillow,” he said, and Spot ignored the way his own breath hitched as Race stepped even closer.

“You’d better believe it, _culo,_ ” he said, secretly taking delight in the way Race’s face colored when Spot spoke Italian. 

Someone cleared their throat, and Spot and Race leapt apart, spinning in unison to see Jack in the kitchen doorway, holding up a bag of snacks. “Do these go in here?”

“They do. Here,” Race said, reaching for the bag, and Spot marveled at how quickly he recomposed himself, because Spot was still pulling himself together after the _incredibly_ close contact he’d just been in with his best friend.

Not that it meant anything. They were friends. Friends were close. It didn’t mean a thing.

Their friends began to arrive, slowly at first, and then all in one big group, and Spot and Race came out of the kitchen to tell everyone to congregate in the living room.

Spot found his normal seat on the couch as Race called the party to order.

“We’re opening our Secret Santa gifts first, because we’re all greedy shits who love getting presents.”

On his other side, Romeo snorted something like, “Isn't that the truth,” and Spot snickered.

“I’ll go get them from the hall table,” Race said, and turned to him. “Spot?”

 _Rules. Right._ “Alright, bitc-” A quick glance at Davey changed his mind mid-sentence. “ _Witches._ You’re going to take the present _you bought_ and hold it until your turn. On your turn _and only_ on your turn, you personally go over and hand it to the recipient themselves. Say something sweet, explain your gift, plead for forgiveness, whatever. Just make it fast so the rest of us can have a turn.”

Race came in, arms full of presents, and as he passed, Spot grabbed his own gift out of Race’s hands before he dumped the stack onto the coffee table. Everyone else stood to get their own, and once he had his, Race reseated himself beside Spot and addressed the room at large.

“Who’s going first?”

“I will,” Jack said, and passed his gift to Davey. Race subtly put his hand up for a high-five, and Spot complied. They’d gotten the fact that Jack had Davey right.

And they continued to be right as the game progressed. Each Secret Santa pairing they got right, they high-fived, and they didn’t get any wrong.

At least, until Itey didn’t hand a present to Race, as he no doubt expected, and instead gave a very nice hat to Snitch, who looked delighted.

Spot watched Race’s expression carefully, but he didn’t say anything. And neither did Spot.

Until it was Spot’s turn to give a gift, that is. Because after inhaling deeply and summoning his courage, Spot turned and passed the badly wrapped present over to Race, whose jaw dropped.

“You _son of a bitch._ You didn’t tell me you had _me!_ ”

“I thought you had it all figured out, Race,” Finch said, and while Race’s eyes didn’t leave Spot, his hand flew up to flip Finch off.

“Can I… open it?” he asked, looking almost _frightened_ now. Suddenly, Spot was terrified, _petrified,_ that Race would absolutely hate his present, or think it was too much, or not enough, or, or, or…

“That’s typically what presents are for, yes,” Spot said in a small voice, not trusting himself enough to try anything wittier.

Race opened the present, and every tear of the wrapping paper physically hurt Spot, like every _rip_ was taunting him. _He’ll hate it. He won’t like it. He’ll think it’s too much. It won’t be right._

“Shut up.”

Spot’s head snapped up from where it had been, hunched over, looking at his hands.

“What is it?” asked Jack, craning his neck to see.

“Shut _up,_ ” Race said again, and Spot searched his face for signs that he hated it, that he liked it, _anything._ “You didn’t.”

Spot looked back down at his hands and mumbled out something about them being “hard to get.” Honestly, he wasn’t even sure what came out of his mouth, but Race didn’t seem to care.

“ _How did you…_ ” Race just stared at the tickets in the tiny box in awe. “These are tickets to _the races._ As in, _the Races._ How the _hell…_ ”

 _Oh my God, he thinks it’s too much,_ Spot thought in a panic, and asked hesitantly, “Are they alright?”

“You… Of course they’re…” Words seemed to have escaped Race for once in his life. His mouth hung open, and then something in his eyes hardened and his next words came out as a hiss. “ _Are you kidding me?”_

He grabbed the front of Spot’s shirt and dragged him close. _Much too close._ And suddenly Spot was scared not of the present but that Race would kiss him.

“What?” he stuttered, looking into his friend’s dark brown eyes and trying to find somewhere inside of him that would _mind_ if Race _did_ kiss him. When he couldn’t find it in him, he grew even more frightened.

Just when he thought for sure that Race would kiss him, he pulled away, mumbling, “Nothing,” and tucking the tickets gently back into their box.

Race then gave his gift, a box of stickers for Crutchie, and Crutchie gave a very well-thought-out gift of paints to Jack, who looked at them in awe, much as Race had his tickets, and then loudly proclaimed that he could kiss Crutchie, he was so happy.

“I mean, I won’t,” he said quickly, upon seeing the look of horror on Crutchie’s that mirrored his own. “Kiss you. But thanks.”

Beside him on the couch, Race groaned. “Just when it was getting good. We’ve still got a few hours until midnight. What do you want to do now?”

Rather than answering, Spot rose and went into the kitchen, bringing back some cases of beer. “We need more alcohol in all our systems,” was his excuse, and no one argued.

“Amen to that,” sighed Race.

Davey pointed to Les. “I’m taking _you_ home.”

 _Excellent call, Dave,_ Spot thought to himself, even as Les began his protests, which Davey and Sarah shot down in unison. “No.”

“What goes down on New Year’s is not for children,” Spot added, sipping his newly acquired bottle of beer.

Davey somehow managed to get Les into his coat, promising that he would be back and, “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“Sure thing, Davey,” Romeo called after him.

“So what should we play?” Spot asked, addressing Race.

~

Truth or Dare. It was always Truth or Dare in the end, wasn’t it.

“We’re stereotypical,” Race said, when questioned about it. “Also, we’re all secretly middle-schoolers.”

Spot couldn’t help but agree. The first game they had tried, Never Have I Ever, had ended up becoming What Else Has Spot Done, which sounded to him like a ploy to get him drunk off his ass because he’d done _everything_ (“Well, it’s not my fault I’m just that cool”). It was eventually Sarah, bless her soul, who suggested Truth or Dare, because Spot was well on his way to becoming buzzed and people were getting bored.

“I’m going first this time,” Race announced, and Spot only had time to think, _oh no,_ before his gaze fell on Specs.

The game went on, with Spot focusing only on the amount of beer he was consuming, because while he liked a healthy buzz as much as anyone, he didn’t want to end the night _blackout_ drunk.

He only looked up again when Crutchie was dared to kiss Jack, at first looking absolutely horrified at the idea, then seeming to steel his nerves. He dragged Jack into a messy kiss that lasted longer than probably acceptable, before they pulled apart and Crutchie winced as though Jack had hit him.

He may as well have, Spot thought, observing the look on his roommate’s face and then exchanging a pained glance with Race.

He felt sorry for Crutchie, then, sorry for the feelings and emotions that must be coursing through his head.

He continued to feel bad for Crutchie until the boy looked up, fire in his eyes, and said, “Spot.”

“Dare,” he said.

“Kiss Race, then,” Crutchie said, and Spot’s vision tunneled.

 _Kiss Race?_ Crutchie, of all people, had to know how much Spot could _not do that._

Because a few days ago, it would have been fine. A silly game. No big deal.

But suddenly Spot was flashing back to the past few days, marathoning _Star Wars_ together, teasing Mush in Italian, sleeping beside each other on the couch when Spot knew as well as anyone that Race had a perfectly decent bed that he could have easily abandoned Spot for, waking up cuddled up together not once but _twice_ , and everything else surrounding these last few days.

He thought of other things, too, less friendly things. How solid Race had felt underneath him when he first woke. How Race went red in the face when Spot demonstrated his newly acquired Italian. The look on Race’s face when Spot had given him the tickets to the Race’s, and that moment directly after when Spot had thought that Race was going to kiss him. _And that heart-stopping instant when he couldn’t find it in him to mind._

All this passed through his mind in less than a second, and he swallowed his doubts down. _This was a kiss between friends. Nothing more._

“Gladly,” he heard himself saying. “C’mere, Higgins.”

And then _he_ was the one grabbing _Race’s_ shirt, and he only had a split second to think, _what the hell are we doing?_ before crushing their mouths together.

It was long and sloppy and wet and Spot might have been glad Les had left, if he could form any coherent thought other than _oh my God oh my God oh my God._

And then it was over, and all Spot could do was laugh breathlessly, and Race followed suit. Unlike Jack and Crutchie, neither of them scooted away, although this just made it easier for Spot to feel the tenseness and uneasiness radiating off his friend.

There were a few more rounds of Truth or Dare that Spot didn’t pay attention to in favor of trying to calm the pounding of his heart , and then they all broke apart into separate groups. Spot joined the group of people playing What Are the Odds and tried not to notice Race slipping away into the kitchen, most likely to grab another beer. _He probably needed one after that sorry excuse for a kiss._

~

Cards Against Humanity brought everyone back into the living room, and Race was no exception, because as Jack and Spot dealt the cards, he threw himself back onto the couch, right beside Spot, just like before.

And Spot would have ignored him, not yet ready to talk about… _whatever-it-is_ that had happened between them, except for the fact that the two of them seemed to have some super-sense that always let them pick the other’s card when they were judging. Halfway through, Jack moaned, “Why doesn’t Race just _tell_ you what card is his so you can spare us all the suspense and get on with the game?” and Crutchie giggled as Race pointed to his card and Spot selected it.

“That’s not what I meant,” Jack grumbled.

“I know,” Race and Spot said in unison, then fist bumped.

All was well. Race didn’t hate him. They were fine. They were still friends.

Hopefully.

~

The game began to wind down about five minutes before midnight. Everyone split off to find their friends and partners and drinks. Spot rose, stretching, and made his way into the kitchen to grab another beer.

“Spot?”

He whirled around, new bottle in hand. Race was in the doorway, leaning against it, and Spot briefly wondered if he was drunk.

But no, his eyes were clear and sharp as ever, and when he pushed off the doorframe and walked over to where Spot was standing, his steps were as steady as ever.

“Why are you mad?” Race asked.

“I’m not-”

“ _Sta’ zitto._ That’s a lie and we both know it, _culo._ Tell me what’s wrong.”

Before he could consult with his brain about how best to handle this, Spot heard his mouth say, “The kiss, Race.”

Race nodded, looking unsurprised. “What about it? Did you hate it? Because-”

“No,” whispered Spot, looking at the tiled floor of the kitchen. “No, I didn’t, and that’s the problem.”

“Why… why is that a problem?” Race looked confused.

Spot sighed. Maybe Race _was_ drunk, because Sober Race didn’t talk things out. He didn’t ask stupid questions, and if something desperately needed to be addressed, he handled it _Race’s_ way. Which usually sucked, but at least he was consistent.

Someone shouted something from the living room, and Spot repeated it. “Three minutes.”

He watched Race mouth _three minutes,_ then take another sip of beer. “ _Merda,_ you suck at changing the subject, Conlon.”

“I wasn’t changing the-” Spot gave up. “Okay, yeah. I do suck.”

“At least you’re past the stage of denial,” Race snorted. Then his snarky expression melted into something more vulnerable and open. “What… what was so bad about the kiss?”

“Race-”

“Do I suck at kissing?”

“ _Race-_ ”

“Mush told me I suck at kissing.”

Spot shut his mouth with an audible sound. “When did _you_ kiss- You know what? Forget it. Forget it all. I don’t want to know. No, you don’t suck at kissing, I just- I just let my feelings get in the way.”

“Feelings?”

“Race do _not_ make me confess to your face what you _already know_ you stupid…” Words weren’t coming to Spot like they usually did, and he was left searching for an insult strong enough. “…Stupid,” he finished lamely.

“What I already know?”

Spot rolled his eyes. “Yes, _culo._ ”

“Sorry if this seems stupid, but if it’s something I _already know_ , shouldn’t I know what it is I already know?”

Spot just stared at him. “You mean you don’t know.”

“I don’t,” Race agreed, eyebrows knitting together. “Know, I mean. I don’t know what I know.” Then he sighed. “ _Madre di Dio,_ I’m not drunk enough for this.”

“You don’t know?” Spot whispered. Maybe he _wasn’t_ as obvious as he thought. Maybe he _could_ keep this massive crush that had arisen seemingly from nowhere and was now tearing him apart a secret.

“We’ve established that, yes,” Race snapped, taking a swig of beer.

From the living room, someone announced that there was a minute left until the New Year.

Spot shook his head, ready to leave the problem until next year, and started to walk out into the main room to join everyone else, but Race put out a hand to stop him.

“Spot,” he said, almost pleading, and it was for that reason and that reason alone that Spot stopped and turned back towards him.

“ _One minute!”_

“Let’s… um,” Spot said, very aware that he sounded like a jumbled mess. He _felt_ like a jumbled mess. “Let’s go out there so we can-um.”

Thankfully, Race seemed to understand. He sighed, like he knew he wasn’t going to get a straight answer out of his friend, and used the arm he had a firm grip around to drag Spot into the living room and onto their couch. _When had it become Their Couch?_ Sometime between all of Spot’s visits and sleeping on it together and waking up in a tangled mess and everything surrounding it.

Beside them, on the other couch, Crutchie was pressing his new stickers onto his crutch and very obviously avoiding Jack’s gaze. Jack was sitting next to him, clutching the arm of the couch like a lifeline and very obviously trying to meet Crutchie’s gaze.

Spot snickered and nudged Race because their conversation in the kitchen had been awkward and stuttered and terrible, but out here, as far as anyone else knew, they were friends. Nothing had happened. They were friends.

Race followed his gaze and laughed and _damn_ his entire face really did light up when he smiled, eyes sparkling, mouth curved up _oh-so-attractively._

Spot had to remind himself he didn’t care. They were _friends._

So instead of meeting Race’s eyes, he pulled a Crutchie and avoided looking at him, instead surveying the room at large. Specs and Romeo were curled up together, facing each other, kissing slowly and sweetly, and _thank God_ at least _some_ people had their shit together. Mush and Blink were looking at each other, close enough that one of them could kiss the other if he felt so inclined.

And apparently Mush seemed so inclined, because one second they were staring into each other’s eyes and the next, they were attached at the mouth, Mush having yanked Blink down into a kiss.

Spot grinned and was about to comment on it, when the clock in the hall chimed midnight, the ball onscreen dropped, and the next few seconds dissolved into chaos.

And then, without warning, Race’s face was right in front of his. Spot could feel Race’s warm breath on his own mouth, and he was just about to say something –what, exactly, he had no idea- when Race leaned forward slightly and pressed their mouths together and _oh no._

Spot felt his bottle of beer slip out of his hands and smash on the ground, which he supposed Mush would get after him for later, but he couldn’t find it in him to care because _Race was kissing him,_ and this was _so_ much better than their first kiss, earlier.

Race kissed like he was proving a point- and maybe, in a way, he was. One hand slid into Spot’s hair, eliciting something akin to a keening sound from Spot, who was still in shock. _What the hell was going on?_

Eventually, Spot realized that sitting there doing nothing was probably _very unhelpful_ and opened his mouth against Race’s, making him gasp against their joined mouths, and Spot made a resolution, right there- assuming Race didn’t hate him after this, he would do _anything in his goddamn power_ to make him make that noise again, _as often as he could._ He moved so that he was sitting on Race’s lap, straddling him, and Race sighed happily (another noise he would _never_ get enough of).

Finally, they pulled apart (oxygen, Spot thought, was an absolute _bitch_ ), and Race had something like fear on his face. He searched Spot’s eyes, maybe looking for regret, or anger, which wasn’t even _close_ to the emotions coursing through Spot right now.

“Alright?” he whispered, and Spot saw, in that moment, how terrified his friend truly was. This would be the time to laugh, to put it off as drunkenness and never speak of it again.

But where the hell would that put them? He wasn’t about to throw away the greatest opportunity he would ever have to actually _act_ on a crush, _especially_ this one.

“Perfect,” Spot whispered, and kissed him once more, before they had to stop because they were both smiling too wide for their mouths to properly fit together anymore.

He happened to look up, then, and saw something that almost, _almost_ rivalled Race kissing him for Weirdest Bit of the Night- _Jack and Crutchie, on the couch beside them, attached at the mouth._

Freaking _finally._

“Ay, lovebirds!” he cried, and underneath him, Race snickered. Jack and Crutchie broke apart in surprise, both looking out-of-breath, smiling wide. _Good._ “Happy New Year, you filthy animals!”

“That’s not even the right holiday, Conlon,” Jack shot back, and Spot laughed.

“Shut up, I’m hilarious,” he said. Race kissed his neck in an attempt to regain his attention, and he turned back to kiss him for real again, lips sliding against each other, Race’s arms moving to loop around Spot’s neck while Spot’s hands found Race’s hair and _tugged._

“Happy New Year,” Spot said in a hushed voice, breaking apart from Race for only an instant, taking in his wild eyes and flushed face, before kissing him again.

Race sighed happily as Spot’s lips moved down his jaw to his neck. “Happy New Year, _il mio amore,”_ he said quietly.

And for once, Spot didn’t ask for a translation.

**Author's Note:**

> YES THE AUTHOR IS FULLY AWARE OF HOW CORNY THE END WAS 
> 
> AND NO THEY DONT CARE
> 
> mush is my spirit animal and he and crutchie def called the whole sprace thing from the beginning
> 
> also i tried to follow TMOTSAGE as closely as possible but some of the details may not line up exactly
> 
> *shrugs* meh
> 
> hope you all enjoyed
> 
> *dances awkwardly out of sight* gooooodbyeyeeeeeeee
> 
> -byrd


End file.
